


Everyone has a blindspot

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet Dancer Sherlock, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Teenlock, balletlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has just moved to the area and needs help if he's to reach his dream of a scholarship. Can two flawed people find their missing piece in the other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First meetings

"Copper Sulphate...Copper Sulphite...It could be Copper-bloody-arsewipe for all I know. I'm never going to get the hang of these valence things Mike...I'm fucked, mate." The frustrated voice carried through the chill air of the school-yard.

"Calm down, John. Look...let's just give it another go." That's Mike Stamford's voice, Sherlock thought. One of the less obnoxious of his classmates. But the first voice was new, and clearly belonged to someone struggling with the rudimentary fundamentals of Chemistry.

There was a heavy sigh and the new voice continued, "Nah, let's give it a break. I should be getting to practice anyway. Thanks for trying, even if the gene for understanding compounds is missing in my DNA." There was the sound of papers being gathered around the corner from where Sherlock had come to stand.

"Anytime John. I'm not the best at this stuff, but you deserve a chance at that scholarship. If anyone deserves to get out of this shit-hole and be a Doctor, it's you."

"Yeah, thanks." The laugh bubbled out easily of the unseen boy and Sherlock thought it probably did so often, and usually with better reason. 

Sherlock stepped further back from the corner and into a narrow recess, hoping to catch sight of this new addition to the school without being seen.

The boy's broad back, dressed in the school rugby colours passed him at a lazy jog, heading for the practice field at the bottom end of the school. Sherlock watched the wind tousle the sandy hair and couldn't help but admire the broad shoulders as they moved easily under the tight jersey. 

Hoisting his backpack higher on his shoulder he stepped around the corner to find Mike packing up the last of his books.

"Oh, Sherlock. On your way to the gym?" There was no hint of the derision or taunting that so many of his classmates saw fit to direct at him.

"Yes." He answered simply, not feeling the need to expand further.

Used to Sherlock's no-nonsense responses, he smiled and pushed again, "How's the dance practice going?"

Finally recognising Mike's questions as the opening to a conversation that they were intended to be, he put more thought into his answer, "Good. It's...." This was where things usually went wrong. If Sherlock actually gave voice to the delight he gained from his ballet, the boys around him interpreted it as weakness and the taunts began. He hadn't found a way to explain that his love for the combination of the music with physical movement was in no way different to the joy others found in running, or soccer, or any number of other sports. "It's....a challenge, physically as well as mentally. It's....tough."

Mike smiled and nodded encouragingly. Well, that went better than usual, Sherlock thought. Taking the opportunity, he asked the question that was most on his mind, nodding in the direction of the rugby field he asked, "Who's the new boy?"

"Oh, that's John Watson. Seems like a nice guy. His Dad just died and they've moved into the area. Tough break. Wants to be a Doctor."

Sherlock found he liked Mike. He'd managed to distill most of the important facts into a simple statement. No varnish, no embellishment. Just the facts....Sherlock liked facts.

But Mike hadn't finished, he'd tilted his head and was appraising Sherlock thoughtfully, "Actually....you might be able to help. John's truly shit at Chemistry and he needs to pass to have a shot at a scholarship. But he's a gun at Biology which seems to be your one blind spot. Maybe you two should....I dunno....team up."

"Who'd want to study with me?" Sherlock muttered.

"That's funny."

"What?"

"Counting John, you're the second person to say that to me today."


	2. Can I help you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John meet properly for the first time and, as always, the relationship blossoms almost immediately

Sherlock had always been a fan of the human form. The way they moved, and the way that people moved them.

As he watched the rugby players go through their motions, he had to admit, there was a kind of rough grace to it. Once he adjusted to the sudden prop and turn movements he conceded that the player’s control of their bodies and the way they exerted their strength in exacting precision commanded a degree of respect.

But seemingly lighting up the field, Sherlock’s gaze was repeatedly drawn back to their freshly minted Captain, John Watson. Filling an unexpected vacancy left by the expulsion of their previous Captain, Mike had explained that John had been asked, and accepted the role little over a week ago.

As John touched the ball to the ground between the uprights, he turned and proceeded to celebrate his success with the most uncoordinated dance Sherlock had ever seen. All flailing arms and duck-waddle legs it was only rescued by his incandescent grin and complete lack of self-consciousness.

Sherlock hid a smile and rose from the bleachers when it became apparent that practice was coming to an end. Ideally, Sherlock should have spent another fifteen minutes stretching after his dance practice and he knew from the unaccustomed pull of muscles as he vaulted down the timber seats that he’d be paying for his shortcut tomorrow.

He broke into an easy lope when he reached the pitch and caught up with the shorter boy before he reached the railing surrounding the field. It felt good to stretch his legs, the easy grace returning with each stride.

“John…..John Watson?” Sherlock called as he approached.

John stopped, dropping the equipment bag and turned. Sherlock was delighted when his gaze was met with clear blue eyes, they held firm to his with interest and clear assessing intelligence.

“Yeah? That’d be me unless you’re looking for money.” He grinned quickly and took a step toward the tall dancer.

“Sherlock Holmes. Mike Stamford said you needed a hand.

Not missing a beat, John lifted one of the equipment bags and held it out, “Thanks.”

Looking down at the bag, now mysteriously hanging from his hand, Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again as John ducked under the railing and Sherlock followed, bending lower before straightening.

“Ahhh, John…..Not actually what I meant.” Sherlock began, his longer strides catching up before falling into step beside the man in muddy shorts and shirt.

John turned and grinned again, “I know….nice to share the load for a change though. Thanks.”

Sherlock was struck at the unquestioning friendliness of the boy. He seemed ready and willing to greet everyone as a friend, instantly treating them as if they’d been together for years. Sherlock had never experienced anything like it and he found himself distressingly willing to take every ounce of John’s bright, open camaraderie. Swinging the strap of the bag over his shoulder he tried not to stare overlong in hopes of storing up the sunny smile for the rainy days Sherlock knew would come.

@@@

“Just toss them in here,” John held the locker door open.

“Don’t they need to be cleaned first?” Sherlock eased the bag to the floor, noticing for the first time the muddy marks it left on his shoulder and sleeve.

John simply shrugged ambivalently, “Stuff ‘em. I’ll be damned if I’m going to clean their gear for them. Time they learned that if it goes away dirty, that’s how it comes out…I’m not their Mum.”

 _So there IS a line_ , Sherlock thought. Clearly John didn’t feel the need to pander to people to earn their friendship. _Good on you!_

“So…..” John leaned against the closed locker door, “What was it that Mike said you could help me with?”

“Chemistry, I could help, if you like.”

“I can’t pay you, did Mike tell you that?”

“I don’t need money. What I need…” Sherlock thought he saw a flicker of something in John’s eyes at the word, but it was gone in a flash, “..is help in Biology. I’m fine with anatomy, but I’m completely lost when it comes to cellular and molecular.”

John looked thoughtful, “You’d be happy to study late? I’m not finished training until six.”

“Suits me. I’m not finished in the studio until then.”

John’s eyes lit up at the word, “Studio? You paint?”

Sherlock laughed and it struck him it was the first time in weeks, “No…I dance.” The words were out before he had a chance to measure them or to question John’s likely reaction. The moment his mouth closed again he steadied his feet awaiting the inevitable belittling.

“Geez…a dancer…cool. You’ve sure got the build for it. Look at your fucking legs, mate. God, it all makes sense now…..Ballet or contemporary?”

“Ballet.” Sherlock murmured, still waiting for the axe to fall.

“Good call. You can go from Ballet to Contem I’ve heard, but not the other way.” John grabbed a towel and headed down the hall continuing the conversation as he went, Sherlock following meekly after him. John talked as if dancing was the most normal choice in the world, as if it were equally valid when compared to basketball or soccer. At that moment, Sherlock would have cheerfully followed John into hell itself.

John paused at a door and turned mid-sentence, “…flexibility freaks me out. Ummm..” John tapped on the door, “Showers….”

Sherlock came to a stop, taking the hint that the conversation should stop at this point and they should go their separate ways, “Of course…you should..” Sherlock nodded his head toward the door.

There was a moment of silence, and Sherlock realised with shock that John was as reticent to bring their discussion to an end as he was.

“I could….” Sherlock trailed off, at a loss as to what to suggest, only that he wanted to suggest something.

“Yeah..you could…ummm.” John looked at the towel in his hand and back at the door again.

“…I could….sit on the other side of the wall while you shower….maybe…if that isn’t too weird..or something.”

“No…” John leapt at the idea, “No…that wouldn’t be…OK so it’s a bit weird,” John grinned up at him, “but let’s do it anyway.”

@@@

“No….listen…There is NO way the Maccabees would beat ANYONE from Motown. I don’t care what the competition is…Motown wins. End of story.” John’s voice disappeared as he clearly put his head under the water.

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor in the steamy shower room, his deep voice echoing off the tiles, “We’ll agree to differ.”

“No..” John was immovable, “We’ll agree you’re wrong, because you are.” The taps squeaked as John turned the water off.

“Teaching you is going to be a delight, I can tell.” Sherlock muttered sarcastically, at high enough volume to ensure John heard.

John appeared around the divide, the towel wrapped around his hips and Sherlock had a surprisingly difficult time dragging his eyes up from where they naturally sat at waist level, up John’s tight abdominal muscles, past his chest to finally reconnect with smiling eyes.

“Enjoy the view?” John smirked as Sherlock blushed. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. I’ve been checking you out all afternoon if I’m honest.”

“I wasn’t…..I don’t.” Sherlock pushed himself up, suddenly skittish and desperate to flee but stilled as John placed a hand on his arm.

“Wait, Damn…sorry…look…sorry.” John’s voice was panicked, “Jesus, that was stupid of me. I should have known…Dancer..bound to be a bit touchy. Bet you’ve had all sorts of things assumed about you. Christ..forget I said it.”

Sherlock risked another glance at John’s face and saw nothing but regret, “No…it’s fine. I overreacted. I’m sure you didn’t mean anything by it…Just a joke.” Sherlock managed a self-deprecating laugh, one he’d honed with years of experience.

“Yeah….a joke.” Now it was John’s turn to look awkwardly away as he muttered, “…just a joke. Let’s head home.”


	3. Dancing with an audience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's seen John practice, now it's John's turn to watch

Sherlock's jete landed awkwardly...again, and as Molly ended her travelling pirouette he wasn't where he was supposed to be and she stumbled against him.

"Your head's not in the game today Sherlock. It's not like you." She shook her head in frustration.

"Sorry...let's try it again from the fourteenth bar". Sherlock stepped over to the iPod dock and reset the music.

Molly tilted gracefully into an Arabesque Penche, Sherlock on one knee in front of her, his steady hands at her waist as they waited for the music to reach their start point. They smiled at each other and at a minute nod they were off.....Molly spinning away on toes and Sherlock rising to leap away in the other direction.

He lost himself in the music, the effortless leaps and spins raising his heart rate and bringing a sweat to his forehead. Yet all the while the words continued to interrupt the flow of his thoughts... _been checking you out_. John's rich voice, light and teasing. Sherlock had stuttered his usual response and had been waiting for the inevitable followup of homophobic jibes that.....didn't come.

Instead, John had back-peddled, apologising and muttering his own hasty excuses...just joking. The problem was that now, Sherlock didn't think he had been joking, and he didn't know what to do with that. The memories of their conversation, the easy laughter and the water cascading down John's unseen skin from the other side of the wall replayed in an endless loop in his head, threatening to crowd out everything else as unfamiliar lust warmed his already hot skin.

He had just enough time to register Molly's approach and reach to lift her into the air safely. Arms extended over his head he held her aloft and turned in a slow circle, then lowered her slowly down the long plane of his body.

 _Ah!_ he thought, the added friction as she slid past his crotch adding to the turmoil of his memories.

As Molly's feet touched ground she stepped away and looked down with a small smile and blush, "Well well well, Sherlock Holmes...Is that for me?"

Sherlock blushed back, "No...no, God...Sorry Molly, that's...I'd never.."

She was quick to reassure with a bright laugh, "It's fine Sherlock. You're probably the last of my male partners to have it happen to. I was starting to think you were dysfunctional, or something."

Sherlock's blush deepened, "Clearly not."

"Clearly not." She chuckled. "At least that explains the distraction...Well, If not me....then who? Who's caught your eye, my beautiful dancer?"

Sherlock hadn't thought it possible to blush more, but he'd clearly been wrong, "Nobody..It's nobody, OK Molly. Drop it, please." He turned away to bend and grab a towel to wipe his face, "Can we get back to work."

"Whatever you say. Only.....If this is going to be and ongoing......problem." She flicked here eyes below his waist again, "Then we're going to have to change the way to dress, otherwise the audience will be watching you rather than me," She leaned up to give him a quick, fond kiss on the cheek, "And we can't have that...can we?"

@@@

The longer the practice went on, the more relaxed Sherlock became. Slowly, the circling thoughts of John and his words made a home for themselves in a dedicated room of his mind palace and seemed content to remain there while Sherlock focussed on his footwork. The steps became fluid, natural and he and Molly resumed the coordinated synchronicity that made them the stars of their combined school program. They were just finishing up when a voice resonated down the hallway outside the dance studio.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you here? I finished rugby early and I thought I'd come to.......Oh!"

John came to a stuttered halt in the doorway to witness Sherlock in the middle of a Grand Jete, an almost impossible height from the floor. He landed and fluidly strode toward Molly, sinking to his knees seemingly in supplication at her feet. She bent low over him, a hand on his head, fingers amongst sweaty curls as the music came to an end.

Panting for breath, Sherlock head came up and turned toward the door, a look of self-consciousness crossing his face as John's openly hungry glare of appreciation threatened to consume him.

Molly leaned down and whispered close to his ear, "Oh....I see."

Sherlock turned, the shocked realisation turning to anger, "No..you don't see at all, stop it." He pushed up off the floor, "Don't say anything." he warned.

She straightened beside him and made herself scarce, grabbing her towel and back-pack and scampering from the room, brushing past a still motionless John on her way.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock." John whispered in the still of the room after Molly had gone, "I'd kill to have your grace."

"And I'd kill for your ease with people. I know which is more likely to spare me a beating." Sherlock Grabbed his towel, holding it nonchalantly low, very aware of Molly's earlier comments and his undesired response to John's proximity.

"What? Seriously, have you had problems?" John stepped closer, there was a vague sort of protectiveness in his eyes, as if the idea of someone laying a hand on Sherlock struck him as offensive.

"More than once I'm afraid. For some reason, certain people think the best way to show their masculine prowess is to victimise someone who is clearly no threat."

John took another step as if his physical presence somehow provided the dancer with protection, "Fucking bastards. God help them if I get my hands on them."

Sherlock laughed bitterly, "Somehow I doubt a stocky rugby player leaping to my defence will do much to alter their opinion of me as an easy mark. But thanks."

John frowned, clearly not happy to let the matter drop, "Yeah, I see your point. Anyway....I wondered if you had some time to try and jam some organic chem into my thick skull tonight. Today's class left me clueless....as usual."

"Sure.." Sherlock nodded, "Wasn't sure you were still interested after....last time."

"What? No, of course not. It's all fine. I can come on a bit strong sometimes, my Mum says I have foot-in-mouth disease. As long as I didn't offend you, we're all good." John waved Sherlock's concerns off.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sherlock smiled, "Good...great...Ummm...I need to stretch before we go or I'll pay for it tomorrow. You mind?"

"Nah, I'll just park myself here near the wall. Knock yourself out." John sat heavily and pulled a textbook out of his bag as Sherlock moved to the barre and began the long and complex stretching routines.

John's nose was in his book when a gentle grunt from Sherlock made him look up. Sherlock was facing away and had his heel balanced on the barre, the other leg stretched out along the floor and he was arched with his fingertips touching his toes near the mirror. Sherlock's arse was facing toward John and he could see the tight muscles clench under the gauzy leotards as he stretched his obliques and glutes. A decidedly unmanly squeak made it past John's lips before he had the chance to suppress it and he immediately clamped a hand over his mouth as he saw Sherlock tense.

Returning his foot the the floor he turned to look down, smiling at John's comically horrified expression. "Enjoying the view?" _Turn-about is fair play John_.

John shook his head, eyes wide before the movement slowed, stopped and turned into an apologetic nod. His hand slipped from his mouth and he sighed, "Yeah, alright....you caught me. Can't honestly say it's likely to stop soon either, if you keep doing stretches like that. Give a guy a break. You stretch like that and all I can think is 'Damn...look how bendy you are' and that is swiftly followed by imagining you in all sorts of positions...Sorry, I can't help it."

Sherlock snorted and grabbed his towel before turning back, his tone more serious, "Do we need to discuss this?"

John pushed himself off the floor and captured Sherlock's gaze, equally serious, "I dunno....do we?"

Sherlock looked away for a moment, the door of his mind-palace ajar with thoughts of John, water running down his back glimpsed through the gap, "Yes, I think we do."


	4. Kinaesthetic learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John's first study session teaches them both something.

“So…..” John stuffed a handful of chips in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“So…” Sherlock responded, watching the muscles in John’s jaw flex as he chewed.

Silence descended again for a few awkward minutes. They were sitting in John’s small bedroom, backs against the bed and legs stretched out along the floor. Text books lay open around them, some with notes and tabs stuck to them, others dog-eared and scrawls in the margins.

“Chip?” John held the bag out.

“No…thanks.” Sherlock nudged a book closed with his toe.

“Did any of that make any sense whatsoever?” John brushed crumbs from his jumper, “I mean, I can explain it another way if you need.”

“No..” Sherlock replied slowly, “It was…good. I’m just a little surprised. I think I just learned more in two hours than I have all year. The way you explained it, it just…makes sense.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, “Why can’t teachers explain it like that?”

John blushed under the praise, “I heard somewhere that different people learn in different ways. It just makes sense that you’d be a kinaesthetic learner. You’re so in touch with your movements, I thought that if I could just give you a way to physically ‘handle’ things, it would…you know….click into place.”

“Well…you were right. That thing you did, with the box being the cell, and then putting in the bits with the labels on them….brilliant!” He flipped another book closed, nimble toes sliding under the cover to lift it.

“Yeah, well….good. I’m glad. Not sure it was brilliant, you’re pretty quick on the uptake once you get going. It’s a bit scary to be honest.”

Sherlock laughed, “Oh, I’m sure you’ll keep up. I wouldn’t leave you behind, you know.”

Sherlock continued to flip the covers of books closed and John began following his path and flipping them open again, one by one. Their stockinged feet conducted an increasingly rapid catch-me-if-you-can around the floor, brushing against each other in their haste to overtake and intercept.

John began to giggle as the battle for book dominance escalated to Sherlock flipping books shut and then sliding them further to his side, John retaliating by sweeping what remained of the open books to his side of the room. Sherlock stretched his long leg over John’s in an attempt to secure a greater area of floor ownership, and John took the opportunity to wriggle a leg underneath to snag a few of the closer books, hooking them back into play.

They were both laughing openly, wresting with increasing abandon until John, more used to the rough and tumble of the rugby field than the serpentine dance of the studio placed a firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing him to the floor with the intention of bodily climbing over him to recapture the bulk of the room.

There was a surprised huff of breath as Sherlock hit the floor and suddenly, John found himself looming over him, faces barely inches apart and Sherlock’s wide eyes looking up at him in shock.

John scrabbled backward, managing to sit back on his heels, resting gently on Sherlock’s thighs, “Sorry…Shit..I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Fuck…I can’t get it right with you, can I?”

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows and drew in a thoughtful breath, “It was just…unexpected. I…..umm….Oh, to hell with it.” Sherlock surged forward and overbalanced John, carrying them both to the floor and clumsily pressing their lips together.

It was uncoordinated, messy and in his own opinion, possibly the most glorious thing Sherlock had ever done. As he felt John’s hand came up to cup the nape of his neck, holding them together, he managed to get a palm on the floor to provide some support, but remained pressed against John, pinning him underneath.

John groaned and fought to separate briefly, “Sherlock….Christ...hang on a tick...Sherlock!”

Sherlock pulled back slightly and looked down at John where he lay wild-eyed and flushed.

“I thought we were going to talk about this?” John smiled up.

“This seemed like a better idea.” He frowned briefly, “Not good?”

John grinned, “Bit not good, yeah.” John hastily continued when Sherlock looked dismayed, “No…sorry…VERY good…GREAT! But….bit fast, yeah? And…” John squirmed, “I’ve got a book jammed in my kidney.”

“Oh.” Sherlock levered himself up, tugging down his shirt that had ridden up a little. “Right. But…you are interested….right?”

John looked at Sherlock, now mirroring his earlier position, perched on his thighs, his hair mussed and his plump lips already swollen and pink, “Oh yeah…I’m definitely interested.”


End file.
